by Brad Thor
But no matter what Fontaine’s true marching orders were, both Gallagher and Hoyt praised him as being an exceptionally talented operator. He was also an immediately likable guy, and though he and Harvath had only met once before, they had gotten along very well.
The sticky part for Harvath was whether Fontaine could be brought into what Hoyt comically referred to as their “circle of trust.” Both Gallagher and Hoyt not only knew that Harvath was in Afghanistan to spring Khan, they were being paid to help him do it.
While Fontaine might be a good guy to involve in their operation, if he was what Harvath suspected him to be, he’d feed all of their plans straight back to Canada. So, as much as Harvath liked him, he decided to keep him out of the loop on Khan. As far as Fontaine was concerned, Harvath was in-country to drum up leads and help consult on the Gallo kidnapping.
As the meal continued, everyone was drinking except for Harvath. His jet lag weighed on him and he decided to stick with caffeine. They also had yet to hear from Rashid, and Harvath wanted to keep a clear head until they had a better angle on what was going on. That went for Gallagher too.
When Harvath saw him reaching for his third bottle of beer, he shot him a look. Baba G was Harvath’s right arm while he was in-country, and he needed to stay sharp. He was getting paid a lot of money to be on call twenty-four hours. He wouldn’t be good to anyone drunk.
After Rashid had missed the two-hour call window by an hour, Harvath gave up looking at his watch. TIA, he reminded himself. He was on Afghan time now, and a promise from an Afghan to get back to someone in two hours didn’t necessarily mean he would get back to you in two hours. You have watches, but we have time, the Afghans were fond of saying.
When the cell phone in his pocket did begin to vibrate, it took Harvath by surprise. He fished it out, only to realize it wasn’t his Afghan phone ringing, but his U.S. BlackBerry.
Standing up from the table, he excused himself and stepped outside into the cold night air. A fire was going in the courtyard’s fire pit and Harvath walked toward it as he activated the call and held the device up to his ear. “This is Harvath.”
“Scot, it’s Oz,” replied his pal back at CIA.
Harvath was glad to hear from him. He hoped the man had good news. “Were you able to speak with anyone from the Afghan desk?”
“I talked to two of them as well as an agent who’d been senior on the Soviet desk when the Russians pulled out.”
“And?”
“You were right about one thing,” said Ozbek. “The agency did have operatives there taking advantage of the troop withdrawal in 1988, as well as the collapse of Afghanistan’s Kremlin-backed government in 1992 when the Russians shuttered their embassy.”
“How about the hard intel I need?”
“According to these guys, not much was left behind. And what the Russians did leave was pretty well sanitized.”
“So no drawings, no blueprints, nothing about the old Soviet base?”
“I’m sorry.”
Harvath filled his lungs and exhaled, watching his breath float upward. “All right,” he said. “Thanks for trying.”
Disconnecting the call, he slid the BlackBerry back into his pocket and stood for a moment warming his hands over the fire. From inside the dining room, he heard more laughter. In the ever-worsening hell that was Afghanistan, it was good that they could relax long enough to laugh.
That made him wonder what Julia Gallo was experiencing at the moment. She was undoubtedly cold, hungry, and very scared. She also probably had no idea whether she was going to live or die. Kidnapping was one of the cruelest tortures a person could be forced to endure. Every time the jailer’s key turned inside the lock, every bump or shuffle outside your cell door made you wonder, Is this it? Are they finally coming for me? Is this the moment I die?
He picked up a piece of brittle scrap wood and dropped it into the fire. Somewhere behind him, he heard the door to the dining room open.
Turning, he saw Baba G with his jacket on and his cell phone in his hand. “Rashid just called,” he said. “He’s got something for us and wants to meet.”
Harvath wasn’t surprised that the man had reached out to Gallagher. They were the ones with the relationship. He was a stranger. He just hoped that trusting Rashid wouldn’t turn out to be a mistake.
CHAPTER 19
Within five minutes, they had gathered their gear and were ready to roll. Flower, who had returned from eating dinner with his family, was outside waiting for them behind the wheel of Gallagher’s Land Cruiser.
Baba G got in front to ride shotgun while Harvath hopped in back. As Flower put the truck in gear and pulled away from the curb, Harvath pulled a Red Bull from the backpack at his feet and prayed that their meeting would be a short one. While being forced to stay awake was one way to get acclimated to local time, doing so while rolling through Kabul after dark had a considerable downside.
Traffic was light as most Afghans huddled at home, trying to keep warm. The people who were out were Westerners, patronizing the many restaurants and clubs that catered to them across the city.
As they exited a traffic circle onto a smaller side street, Harvath took a mental snapshot to help him keep track of their route, just in case the unthinkable happened and he had to make his way home alone.
Following Gallagher’s instructions, Flower performed a series of surveillance detection routes, or SDRs, and when the trio was satisfied they weren’t being followed, they headed toward their rendezvous.
Inspector Rashid had provided Gallagher with a specific route, which Flower now followed.
He threaded the Land Cruiser through quiet streets and neighborhoods, some of which Baba G had never been through himself.
They had just turned out of a narrow side street when Harvath noticed Gallagher’s posture change. “What’s up?” he asked from the backseat.
Flower answered before his boss. “Checkpoint.”
“Double-check your weapons,” said Gallagher. “Make sure everything is out of sight. Have your ID available and remember to smile and be friendly. We’re just a couple of NGO workers out for dinner.”
As Harvath did as Gallagher suggested, he asked, “Have you ever seen a checkpoint here before?”
“No, but they move around all the time.”
“It doesn’t bother you that we’ve got a lot of money with us and right in the middle of the route that Rashid sent us on there’s a roadblock?”
“Of course it bothers me,” replied Gallagher, “but this could just be a checkpoint. With all the attacks, the Afghans are on heightened alert. Just stay calm and we’ll be okay.”
Harvath didn’t believe in coincidences and adjusted the position of his holster so he could access his Glock quickly if he needed to.
Ahead of them were several green Ford pickup trucks with the Afghan National Army emblem on the side. Flower brought the Land Cruiser to a halt and rolled down his window. Gallagher and Harvath did the same with theirs.
The soldiers looked cold and bored. Harvath took that as a good sign this wasn’t a holdup. If it was, the men at the checkpoint would be nervous and switched on.
He smiled as he’d been instructed and holding his hand over his heart bade the soldier outside his window, “Salaam alaikum.”
The soldier had both hands on his AK-47, but he nodded and returned Harvath’s greeting.
Gallagher bantered with his soldier in broken Dari, while Flower spoke in calm, quick sentences. When Harvath heard the soldier laugh, he started to relax. Seconds later, the soldiers bade them all a good evening and waved them through the checkpoint.
“See? Nothing to worry about,” stated Gallagher as he powered his window back up and they drove on.
Ten minutes later, when they were within two blocks of their destination, Gallagher pulled out his mobile and called Inspector Rashid. The gates were open and waiting for them when they arrived.
Flower drove into the narrow courtyard and killed his lights. �
��I’ll wait here,” he said.
“You sure you don’t want to come inside?” asked Gallagher.
He shook his head and, removing a pack of cigarettes from his heavy winter coat, pointed to a small guard shack where the men who had shut the gates behind them had gone and said, “I’ll be over there.”
Gallagher climbed out of the Land Cruiser and Harvath followed, his backpack slung over his shoulder.
A sentry outside the house they were using for the rendezvous stuck his hand out and asked for something in Dari. Harvath looked at Gallagher, who translated for him. “Take the batteries out of your cell phones. We’ll get them back when we leave.”
The Afghans harbored a paranoia regarding cell phones, especially their ability to act as beacons for American missile strikes. Warring factions had been known to toss compromised phones over the walls of each other’s homes in the hopes that they could draw an American military response.
The Taliban were so afraid of mobile phones, they made cell providers in many parts of the country shut down their networks at night so they couldn’t be tracked.
Harvath found it ironic that other than batteries, they hadn’t been asked to surrender anything else. They didn’t look into Harvath’s bag, nor were he or Gallagher frisked. They were free to walk into the meeting armed, as long as it wasn’t with a functioning cell phone.
The men slipped off their boots and were met inside by Inspector Rashid, who embraced them both. They touched hearts in greeting with the police officer and were shown into a large living area where two bearded men were already seated. The men rose and Rashid introduced them as Marjan and Pamir—his cousins who worked for the National Directorate of Security.
Once the group had said their traditional hellos and had shaken hands, Harvath and Gallagher removed their coats and sat down upon thin cushions on a green-carpeted floor.
Though the room was surrounded with windows, the panes of glass had been carefully covered over with paper. A small chandelier cast a yellow glow over the otherwise barren room.
Dishes of candy and sweets sat on the floor along with a silver pitcher and several glasses.
“Unfortunately,” Rashid said with a smile as he reached for the pitcher and began pouring for everyone, “we only have American tea this evening.”
“My favorite,” replied Gallagher.
The instant his was poured, Harvath recognized what “American tea” was a euphemism for—whiskey.
Harvath sipped his drink slowly. Gallagher, on the other hand, made short work of his first round and wasn’t shy about accepting a second. Cultural sensitivity notwithstanding, Harvath was concerned that Baba G needed to watch his intake. While he was all for male bonding, especially with foreign intelligence assets, this wasn’t boys’ night out. The whiskey was a preamble to a negotiation for which he and Gallagher needed to remain sharp.
After forty-five minutes of chitchat, during which, Harvath noted thankfully, Baba G ignored his third round, they got down to the reason they were sitting in an NDS safe house in Kabul on a Friday night—snatching Mustafa Khan.
Rashid’s cousin, Pamir, had the best news Harvath had heard yet. He not only knew of the underground tunnels radiating out from the old Soviet military base, he had been through many of them and could get his hands on any maps Harvath wanted.
Marjan had been tasked to the base’s secret interrogation facility at one point and could provide any intel needed.
Inspector Rashid had certainly delivered, but Harvath was wary that it was all just a little too convenient. Undoubtedly they saw him as a walking ATM machine. Suckers were born every minute, but rarely did they roll through Afghanistan with the kind of money that Harvath was carrying.
He’d been leery about giving Rashid so much up front, but Gallagher had insisted, and Harvath trusted his knowledge of the marketplace to know the right amount to get Rashid’s attention.
Well, they had apparently gotten the police inspector’s attention. The question was, could they rely on what they were purchasing?
As if reading Harvath’s mind, Inspector Rashid got to his feet and asked his guests to follow him. Harvath and Gallagher obeyed, with Marjan and Pamir right behind.
At the end of the hall, Rashid removed a key from his pocket and opened the door to a bedroom. Arrayed along two single beds were almost all of the items Harvath had requested.
Entering the room, he began going through the gear and inspecting it. Gallagher stepped in and took a look at it as well.
Once he had finished the inspection, Harvath asked Rashid, “What about the munitions?”
“The munitions you asked for are not easy to get.”
“We can’t do this without them.”
The inspector smiled. “You requested something highly specialized.”
Gallagher looked at Harvath and rubbed his thumb and forefinger together.
“How much to get the munitions?” asked Harvath.
“Let’s have some more tea,” replied Rashid.
Harvath turned toward the door and said to Gallagher, “We obviously made a mistake. Let’s go.”
Rashid put his hands up and inserted himself into the doorway. “Please, my friends,” he said. “I am here to help you.”
“Then I suggest you help us find those munitions.”
“Of course, of course. Anything is possible.”
“With the right amount of money, right?” replied Harvath.
“As I said, this particular item is not so easy to get.”
“But it is possible.”
“If he cannot locate any of the items on your list, we can,” stated Pamir.
Rashid smiled as if that settled everything and directed his guests back into the living room. Reluctantly, Harvath acquiesced.
After twenty more minutes of “tea,” they discussed terms. While the prices weren’t unreasonable, Harvath knew the Afghans expected to haggle and he was an exceptional negotiator. When they were finished, the cost had not been dramatically reduced, but Harvath had locked in a key insurance policy—Marjan and Pamir would join their team to help snatch Mustafa Khan.
Of course, the NDS operatives were not crazy about this idea at first, but the promise of a bonus of several times what each man made in a year sealed the deal.
They spent another hour talking, with Rashid, Marjan, and Pamir drinking the majority of the American tea in the pitcher.
When they said good-bye, the two Americans received long, whiskey-soaked hugs from their Afghan hosts.
Harvath removed several thick stacks of cash from his backpack and placed them under one of the cushions in the living room.
Out in the courtyard, Marjan and Pamir’s men loaded the equipment into the back of the Land Cruiser and covered it over with a couple of blankets.
Sliding his cell phone back into his pocket, Rashid walked over to the truck and gave Flower a new set of directions, which would allow them to avoid the most recently positioned mobile checkpoints.
After pulling into the road, Gallagher looked over his shoulder. As he watched the gates to the NDS safe house close behind them, he asked, “So what do you think?”
In the darkness of the backseat, Harvath remained silent. Rashid had turned out to be better than he had expected, and Marjan and Pamir looked poised to pick up where the police inspector’s expertise had left off, but in all honesty, Harvath knew they were still a long way from where they needed to be.
Their preoperational planning had been tossed out the window when Mustafa Khan had been moved from Policharki. They were starting from scratch now and Harvath didn’t like that. Nevertheless, they were moving forward. He only hoped that they were moving fast enough.
CHAPTER 20
EAST HAMPTON, NEW YORK
Elise Campbell stepped off her train and onto the East Hampton platform. The evening air was chilly and damp.
The Secret Service agent had caught a high-speed Acela Express from Washington to Penn Station and from there the Long
Island Railroad via Jamaica Station out to the easternmost town on the South Shore of Long Island. Standing beneath the portico was Detective Rita Klees.
“Whatever you do,” said Rita as she greeted Elise with a hug and took her bag, “please tell me you didn’t eat any train food.”
“Rita, I’ve been on trains and in stations for over seven hours. So sue me, I broke down and had a sandwich.”
Klees made a face. “I refuse to eat that garbage they serve.” Nodding toward her car she said, “C’mon. We’ll get you a real dinner. And a drink.”
The detective threw Campbell’s overnight bag into the cargo area of her Mini Cooper and then slid into the driver’s seat. After starting the car, she picked up a pack of cigarettes and asked, “Do you mind?”
The car already smelled like an ashtray. “Go ahead,” said Campbell as she rolled down her window.
They chatted about Elise’s trip up from D.C. as Rita drove to a small restaurant called Thackers and parked her car. She grabbed her briefcase from the backseat and the two women made their way inside.
It was obvious by the attention Klees received from the hostess, as well as the piano player segueing out of the song he had been playing and launching into the Sinatra classic that closed every Yankee game, “New York, New York,” that she was a bit of a regular.
Rita waved and said hello to other patrons she knew as they were shown to a quiet leather booth in the corner. When the hostess presented the menus, Klees declined and asked Elise, “You’re a meat eater, right? Do you like short ribs?”
“I love short ribs,” replied Campbell.
“These are the best you’ll ever have,” she said and then looked back at the hostess. “Two orders of the short ribs, then, and I’ll have a Johnnie Green on the rocks.”
Elise ordered a glass of red wine and the hostess disappeared. Reaching into her briefcase, Rita removed a thick folder and set it on the table.
“Is that it?” asked Campbell.
Klees nodded.
Elise had spent the trip up from D.C. trying to figure out what to say to her friend. She knew she couldn’t lie to her, which left her with only one option—the truth. But how much of the truth should she reveal? “I need your word that none of what I’m about to tell you will go any further.”